


This is the House that Doubt Built

by UndeservingHero



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Severe Angst in the beginning, domestic!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndeservingHero/pseuds/UndeservingHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the unthinkable happens, John Watson returns to Baker's Street. Only to find it empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exit Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonikaKrasnorada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaKrasnorada/gifts).



> The chapters of this story will be named after songs. They aren't really recommendations, but you can listen to them if you wish. I'll leave the names of the bands and such here. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Exit Wounds - The Script
> 
> This is a gift for MonikaKrasnorada because she told me she was the queen of angst. Challenge accepted, my dear.

It had been years since he had darkened this doorstep. Brass numbers and a weathered knocker stared down at him. The black paint below it had begun to chip and wear in the wake of so many wrists resting there.

He had convinced himself that coming back here would never be an option. Now, he felt as if he had none left.

Swallowing hard, he lifted a hand to the doorbell and pressed it.

Moments passed and nothing happened so he lifted a hand to the knocker and used it just like hundred of others had.

“Probably put it in the fridge again...” he muttered.

The door pulled open slightly and he didn’t recognize the woman that peered at him in question. “Yes?”

“Oh, sorry.” He checked the numbers on the door to make sure he hadn’t somehow missed it, but there they were staring him in the face. “Is there... Doesn’t Sherlock Holmes live here?” He felt stupid for asking, but at this point he wasn’t so sure anymore.

She opened the door a bit more. “No, not for a few months. Mrs Hudson is still here though. Want me to get her?”

He nodded, not having the foggiest as to what was going on.

The woman disappeared for a moment before Mrs Hudson returned alone. She blinked when she saw him but a smile spread across her face. “John? Oh, John! It is good to see you.” She ushered him towards her flat. “Do come in.”

He stepped over the threshold and knew something was off. Sherlock disappeared for weeks at a time, but something about 221 was completely devoid of life despite Mrs Hudson and the other woman living there.

“Is that woman who answered the door your daughter?” he asked as she ushered him into a chair nearby.

She sat down and shook her head, reaching for a tissue from the box on the table beside her. “No. She’s renting that unit downstairs. The basement one..?”

John nodded in understanding. “I remember.”

“Yes, well, things are easy to forget.” Her voice cracked and he felt as if he’d been punched in the chest.

He sat quiet for a moment and rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Where is Sherlock?” he asked. “The woman said...”  He dreaded the answer.

With shaking fingers, Mrs Hudson raised the tissue to her eyes and dabbed delicately. “He was here one moment... Then, he was just gone... It was such a terrible...” Her voice caught and she had to grab more tissues to stifle her crying.

He laid a hand on her shoulder as he tried to hold himself together. “What happened?” he managed to get through his tight throat.

She stuttered through her crying, “Oh, it was j-just awful, John. On-One minute, he was here. The next, he was just g-gone. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to get Mycroft, but when I told him, he just told me he was sorry and hung up.”

She was shaking like a leaf in a stiff autumn wind as she clutched her tissues. He patted her veined, knotted hands. “I’m sorry...” He had to take a breath as his eyes burned and the air just didn’t manage to get to his lungs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t...”

She gave him a watery smile. “You’ve had your own life, John. Baby and all. You can’t blame yourself...”

Guilt, heavier than before, ate at him as he stared through the window at the brick wall on the other side where a window box of poppies were fighting for life in the unseasonally crisp Spring air.

 

********

 

His footsteps were heavy and slow when he finally got up the nerve to trudge upstairs. Part of him had no desire to see it, and the other half needed to affirm with his own eyes that Sherlock was gone.

The door squeaked quietly when he pushed it open to the darkened flat. Nothing moved except the dust moats by the windows, swirling only slightly more jovially when the waft of air from the door hit them.

Not much had changed. A few more bulletholes in the wall by the face drawn in that garish yellow paint, more books that spilled into piles on the floor, and a coating of dust on every surface.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he saw the shadow of the gangly detective moving about in his memory transposed over the quiet scene before him. He could hear the muttering of an almost-solved murder being spun out in front of him like floss candy.

A thump from downstairs shattered the fragile image and it sucked the breath right out of him like the heat from an inferno.

He stumbled forward and collapsed into the chair that had long since been declared to be his. Hands shaking, he covered his face as a sob racked him.

He had thought once before that Sherlock was gone, but there had been no dramatic exit this time; no drawn out goodbyes. Just an empty flat left behind with nothing saying he’d ever been there other than the long gone dry cup of tea beside the leather chair and a knife stuck in the mantlepiece.

There, in the silence, he let the aching pain take him. He had tried his damnedest to spare Mrs Hudson his anguish. And this would always be the one place he felt at ease to let everything out.

Should have felt at least.

But the whole reason he had been at ease was gone. Forever, it would seem.

He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his face.

Quietly, he spoke to the room, “I know I was a lousy git not calling or coming ‘round, but... Did you--” He swiped at his face again as the knot in his throat cut off all of his air, the cotton feeling like sandpaper. “Did you have to get yourself killed?”

There was no answer from the room or the skull on the mantle.

He stared at the empty leather chair and had a flash of memory when Sherlock had been obnoxiously talking to the tellie while he’d been writing; wrapped up in his coat like he was freezing.

With a flash of anger, he stood and shed his coat, shoving his handkerchief back into his pocket. He hung the heavy canvas on the coatrack and made his way downstairs. Mrs Hudson’s door was still open and he walked in to find her sipping sadly on a cup of tea.

“Yes, dear?” she asked when she saw him. She didn’t bother mentioning the fact that his eyes were red ‘round the rim or that he seemed rather off. They both knew he wasn’t alright and neither was she.

He fumbled for a moment with what he wanted to say before he cleared his throat. “I’ll be moving back in if you’ll have me.”

She stared at him, startled by the declaration. “But... What about Mary?”

He took a deep breath. “Mary and me, we split up. She... she couldn’t not be who she is any more than Sherlock could stop being himself. I found out she was going out and taking contracts.” At least those words were easier for him to say than his best friend was dead.

She covered her mouth as her eyes went wide with horror. “Oh John...”

His face twitched with his ire, but he squared up his shoulders and found a firm place to stand. “So, if you’ll have me, I’d like to move back in upstairs.”

She got up and came to him, giving him a firm hug. “Of course, you can, dear. But... will you be alright?”

He let himself be hugged and carefully returned the affection. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

She patted his face as she pulled back. “You always have a choice, dear. Always.”

He gave her a forced smile, but didn’t say anything else as he turned and went back towards the flat.

He shed his jumper before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and set to work cleaning. He dusted and straightened. For a moment, he even considered organizing the books into some semblance of order, but he didn’t have the strength yet to tackle that beast. Instead, he moved to the kitchen and set about getting rid of old food and cleaning out the icebox. He came across some bodyparts in the microwave that had mummified themselves and nearly threw up just from the smell before he could get them into a bag.

As he sat in his chair after, the windows were dark with the fall of night and he had managed to waste a day. When he corralled himself to finally sit still and stop fidgeting with things, he felt the emptiness again. No one barged in and demanded that he get up to help dissect some poor bloke’s brain that had managed to fall out of a window or mix some chemical compound that would make the flat smell like rotten tomatoes for a week.

He found that he missed it. Really missed it. Of course, he had when he’d moved out and gotten married. He had missed all of the ramshackle adventures and the moments where he’d thought his life would end.

Feeling like the walls would close in on him, he stood in a rush and paced across the floor, back and forth. Even when he wasn’t here, Sherlock was by far the most infuriating man he’d ever known.

As he passed by again, he glanced up and saw the door at the end of the hall. It was closed. As Mycroft had once pointed out, it was never closed. He thought for a long moment about going to open it. But like the books, he didn’t have the strength to do that.

He dragged his hands down over his face, feeling the callouses and the scars as they brushed over his skin. They were reminders of lives saved and battles fought. Just like this flat. Everywhere he looked, he remembered something.

Feeling the drag of dust on his eyelashes and the fatigue of fighting his own emotions, he headed to the shower and let the hot water wash away the grief for a moment.

Arms heavy and his knees aching, he went up to his old room and found it hadn’t been changed at all. He still had a spare pair of clothes in the wardrobe and sighed in relief as he changed into them.

Towel around his shoulders, he ordered takeaway to be delivered from that same Thai place down the street. He turned on the tellie and surfed through news channels while he waited for the doorbell to ring. No bombings or shootings or people disappearing. Even years later, he still looked for things to send to Sherlock.

Of course, he had gone out on cases and Sherlock had involved him occasionally, but it hadn’t ever really been the same since he’d married Mary.

He regretted a lot of things. That was chief among them.


	2. Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, this chapter is named after a song but not based on it. 
> 
> Hurricane - Theory of a Deadman

Pulling on one of his old jumpers that he’d left and the same jeans from yesterday, John left the flat and told Mrs Hudson that he would be back later after going to get some of his things. She just waved him out and told him she would be going to have tea at a cafe nearby if he needed anything.

Taking his car, he headed out to Stratford where he and Mary had an apartment together. All the way over, he felt like he was being mashed around on the inside. His emotions were in complete turmoil over everything that had happened the day before. First his wife, then his best friend.

He shook his head and wished to go back to yesterday morning and never find out about either one. Living in the dark was better than living with a galaxy-sized black hole in his chest. It was ruddy awful if he was being honest.

When he finally arrived, he parked carefully and climbed out as he looked up at the building’s front. He had thought they were happy here, despite their differences.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he trudged up the stairs and nearly dropped his keys at the door. He could hear the baby giggling and Mary talking to him. For a moment, he wanted to close his eyes and believe that it had all been some bad dream.

Instead, he pushed the door open and found Mary on the floor of the sitting room with Hamish between her legs. He was completely enamoured with the television show that was on. Something about fuzzy animals that could talk.

Mary looked up when she heard the door and her face fell as she met his eyes. Her brows came together and she looked troubled but the boy in her lap looked over and spotted his father.

“Papa!” He got up on his little chubby legs and waddled over to John.

John let a smile come over his face as he bent and picked him up. “Hello, lad.” He kissed his face and got a sloppy one in return on his cheek.

“Where’ve you been?” Mary asked.

“Baker Street. Not that it’s any of your business anymore.” He gave her a stern glare and drew his line in the sand.

She rose and straightened her trousers before meeting his eyes again. “So that’s how this is going to be?”

She almost sounded angry, but he kept his face in the same mould. “Yeah. This is how this is going to be. Hamish comes with me since you can’t stay out of harm’s way to make sure he has a parent with him.”

“So you would take him back into the lion’s den with Sherlock rather than leave him with me?” she demanded.

After a beat, he nodded. “Yeah. I would.” Last thing he wanted was her sympathy. “Since you could bring down all sorts of national security breaches that we would never see coming. At least with Sherlock, I’ll know who’s trying to kill us.”

She looked so frustrated and like she wanted to say something but couldn’t muster a valid argument. Instead, she stormed past him, grabbing her keys and coat before leaving. The door slammed behind her and rattled the shelf next to it.

Hamish sniffled and his little lip wobbled from the noise.

John held him close against his collar and rocked them both, trying his damnedest to not let her win. He wouldn’t cry. Not now.

After a bit, he got Hamish to calm down and went to put him in his playpen. With precision born of travelling all over the world with his unit, he quickly packed all of his clothes into a duffle he’d managed to hang onto, along with his laptop and a few other various necessities. He looked around at everything in their room before he picked up the duffle and left it to go back into Hamish’s room.

The boy was busy with making two dinosaurs duke it out on the floor of his pen, making mangled roaring noises. John couldn’t keep the smile off of his face before going to pack all of his little clothes in with his. A diaper bag was collected and he made sure everything necessary was inside. He then moved on to the things that Hamish couldn’t live without for a few days until he could get some boxes to come for the rest. A few toys were added and his blanket was wrapped tightly around him when he was lifted out of the pen.

A few moments later, they were in the car out front with Hamish decidedly grumpy that he was in his carseat and their things set in the boot. John was busy trying to work out how he would handle it all by himself as he drove back to Baker Street with his son in tow.

Not having Mary or Sherlock was a terrifying notion. One that was far worse than any he’d ever expected to deal with again.

A wave of anxiety so powerful that he couldn’t breathe crashed over him and he had to pull over, much to the driver behind him’s annoyance.

He unbuckled himself and felt like he still couldn’t breathe so down the windows went as he rested his head against the wheel. God, how could he be so stupid. There was no way he could do this on his own. He could barely manage to function by himself, much less take care of Hamish.

He tried to get his breathing under control with the same old tactics he’d been using for years and slowly managed to get oxygen into his lungs.

Hamish started babbling behind him like he expected his father to understand everything he was saying.

That alone gave John the strength he needed to sit up and scrub his hands over his face. God he’d needed that. He needed a good old-fashioned breakdown just to get it all out. He would have to wait though. Another human being was depending on him for survival.

With care, he pulled back out into traffic and headed toward Baker Street again. Parking with the permanence of actually living here again was mind-boggling. Hamish was thrilled to be released from his confines though and clung to his father as they made their way back into 221B.

Mrs Hudson heard them coming in and stuck her head out her door. When she saw Hamish, her face lit up and she hurried out to collect him from John. Hamish giggled as she fussed over him.

John couldn’t help the smile on his face. Of course he wasn’t alone. How could he forget that Mrs Hudson had been taking care of an overgrown child for years?

She looked to John and said, “I’ll watch him if you want to get moved back in, dear. Take your time. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a little one to look after.”

John sagged and smiled wearily. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I do need to go back and get some things.”

She waved him on and took the diaper bag from him. “Go. I have this under control.” She kissed a chubby cheek and the boy squealed. “Biscuits and one of those muppet shows should do to keep him busy, I think.”

He couldn’t even find it in him to argue about the biscuits. “You are a saint, Mrs Hudson. You really are.”

She laughed. “Oh goodness, no. I just love children. Go on. I have loads of time to spoil him.”

He nodded and thumped his way upstairs with the duffel. He dumped it on the floor of his room for the moment before heading back down to the car.

A stop for boxes later, he went to collect the rest of their things.

 

The baby bed had been reassembled in the corner of his room and everything else had been put away. The playpen was in the sitting room downstairs.

It was almost profane sitting so innocuously where the table had been. It was such a skewed map of what had been his life. Instead of a buoyant sociopath with too much time on his hands, he now had a two year old that was too enthusiastic about dinosaurs for his own good.

Mrs Hudson visited them more now than when he and Sherlock had both lived here. She seemed to enjoy having Hamish around and loved doting on him as a grandmother would. The boy had latched onto her with a fierce love born of absolute trust that he would get another biscuit sometime soon.

John couldn’t bring himself to stop the biscuit giving. His son needed bonding with someone other than himself and Mrs Hudson was one of the best people he knew. And she was a ferociously wonderful babysitter while he was at the hospital taking care of his patients.

Days of settling back into a conglomeration of his old life and his new one turned into weeks and he somehow figured out how to function as a single parent.

Some days were harder than others, but that was like anything. Life went on even when he felt like falling apart.

He still saw the ghost of Sherlock wandering around the flat and he often thought of calling Mary and telling her he wanted to come home. He convinced himself that he didn’t need her every time though with thoughts of Hamish and how vulnerable the boy was.

With a bit of snide vindictiveness, he thought, She’s made her bed. Now she has to lie in it.

As he sat back against the couch, he looked at Billy on the mantlepiece. The skull only offered a grimly cheerful smile of reassurance that not everything was going to shatter to pieces if his grip on it slipped.

Somehow, that was the final straw.

“Damn you, Billy,” he muttered as he felt the burning behind his eyes. He hadn’t meant to start crying, but suddenly, he was overwhelmed.

It started out as quiet crying as he looked at Billy. But he couldn’t stand to hold himself up and curled over on his side. A pillow was clutched to his chest as he finally let himself cry so hard he could hardly pull in a breath between sobs.

His ribs felt as though they were collapsing and his eyes were so tired of being squeezed shut, but he couldn’t stop. He let it all flood through him and he mourned the loss of his best friend. For the second time. And he mourned the loss of his marriage and all of the good things it had brought into his life.

 

Hours later, he woke to the soft sounds of rain on the pavement outside of 221B and realized he must have fallen asleep from exhaustion. He sat up and felt as though cotton was in his mouth.

He tried to remember what had happened or if he’d needed to do anything or what he had been trying to do. He came up empty except for Hamish. He was still downstairs with Mrs Hudson.

Feeling the creak in his bones, he got up and downed a glass of water to soothe the cotton feeling. He stared out the window to the buildings across Baker Street and felt nothing for a long moment.

He had a lot of things he’d like to say to Sherlock. Chief amongst them was the fact that he missed him dearly; even his odd hours and the violin at four in the morning and the body parts in the fridge.

Regret was a vicious thing. He had so rarely felt it, but now it was vehement in its mission to never leave him alone.

Frustrated, he slammed the glass down on the table and stalked down the stairs. Instead of going to get Hamish, he kept walking and left. He needed to get all of it out before he was around either Hamish or Mrs Hudson. The last thing he wanted was to take this out on them.

 


	3. Drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drown - Bring Me the Horizon

The office felt heavy and oppressive. Dark woods and curtains felt like they were closing in on him. The massive old desk loomed in front of him as if it were some hulking predator ready to pounce on him. He sighed and reminded himself that he needed to be here. 

The door opened behind him and he stood. The man that walked in was a reflection of his office; tall, square, and sturdily built. “Mr Cambridge?” 

“And you would be Mr Watson.” He held out a broad hand and shook John’s when it was offered. “I would say it’s good to see you, but I think that would be rude under the circumstances.”

John offered a slight tilt of his mouth that didn’t feel right so he let it fall as he resumed his seat. “I appreciate it.” 

“I’m told that you think it necessary to separate from your wife?” Cambridge asked as he opened a file on his desk and a silver pen flashed out of a pocket to be pressed tip-first to the paper. 

John felt like he was about to have his skin flayed off by the look in Cambridge’s eye, but he steeled himself against it. He sat up just the smallest bit straighter and his eyes remained level with the other man’s. “Yes, I do.” 

“Reasons?” he asked, picking up a pen to mark down. 

“We cannot agree about her career. She refuses to listen to anything I have to say. She has already given me custody of our son,” John explained.

Cambridge nodded and wrote something with that silver pen of his. “And where are you currently living?” 

“Baker Street. London.” 

“Right. And is your son living with you?” he asked as he made another note. 

John fidgeted in his seat, half standing to reposition before settling again. “Yes, he is. My landlady is acting as his nanny while I pull shifts at Bart’s.” 

“Good. You have a steady, accountable person to vouch for your parental worthiness.” 

And on it went. John sat there for hours, spilling all but the deepest of secrets to the lawyer. He knew the man would never need this much because if he really pushed Mary’s buttons, she would never stand against him. He had too much information on her. He wouldn’t really use it against her, but at the same time, he knew what he had to do. 

As afternoon turned into early evening, John finally left with Cambridge promising that he would have a draft of the papers to be served to Mary as soon as they were notarized. 

 

On his way home, he stopped in at the grocery and picked up some things that he knew they were needing at the flat. 

As he passed through, he picked up Sherlock’s favourite coffee and added it to the basket. Only halfway down the aisle did he realize his mistake. He swallowed and very slowly walked back to replace it on the shelf. 

Old habits really did die hard, it would seem. 

After the stress of the earlier part of his day, it was enough to leave his hands shaking. That old tremor was back. He hated Mycroft for it because he had been the one to point out the lie that it was PTSD. 

Frustrated with himself and Sherlock, he left the grocery with everything he thought he might need and set out for the flat. 

 

Hamish was busy trying to put his blocks in some semblance of order when John knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door. She smiled as she pulled it open. “Hello, John.” 

The boy saw him and ran to tackle his shins like he did every day. “Mrs Hudson. How was he today?” 

“Same as every day, dear. Quiet and happy. We watched the tellie and he made a tiny little castle that consisted of no less than four blocks stacked together.” She beamed at him and he kissed Hamish’s face. 

“Little architect on my hands, then. Well, we’ll just have to see what we can do about it.” The boy seemed thrilled to have his father’s attention. Babbling and gesturing happened quite a lot and John just nodded profusely. He had no idea what his son was talking about, but Hamish seemed to know just what he wanted as he grinned up at him.

“Been like that all day, the dear. Just as happy.” 

“I’m glad he’s not giving you trouble.” 

Hamish squirmed to be put down and headed straight back for his blocks. 

“Even if he was, I wouldn’t mind. It’s nice to have someone to look after.” 

Neither of them said anything about the niggling feeling in the back of their mind. They both knew who they were thinking of in those moments. 

 

A shrieking scream tore through 221B and John’s shoulders flinched downward out of reflex. Hamish was having a right royal fit in his playpen. 

When John turned around, he saw the source of the problem. One of Hamish’s dinosaurs seemed to have taken a flying leap out of the pen onto the floor a metre away. He moved into the room and Hamish made grabbing motions as he bent to pick it up. 

As soon as it was back in his possession, the sobbing stopped. Tiny fingers wrapped around the soft rubber with glee as he immediately flopped back down to play as if he had completely forgotten about the nuclear meltdown that had just transpired. 

John stood over him and watched as Hamish just continued on as if there was nothing wrong in the world. 

He had a strong wave of love for his son and a completely unshakeable envy for his obliviousness to the evils of the world. He leaned down and kissed his son’s thatch of blonde hair. “I love you, Hamish.” 

Hamish made a bubbling noise and looked up at him. “Papa!” 

John smiled and smoothed a palm over the messy blonde tufts before going back to the kitchen to finish lunch. 

He knew there were things that he should have said and things he still needed to say to some of the people in his life. He didn’t know what to do about the passed missed chances, but he could change the ones that still needed doing. 

After eating, he gathered up Hamish and went downstairs to tell Mrs Hudson he was going to pop out for a bit and go see some people. She waved him out after making sure he didn’t want her to watch Hamish. 

He declined and got them both settled into the car before heading to NSY. 

On his arrival, he headed up to see Lestrade who was thrilled to see him and Hamish. He leaned down over the carrier with his hands clasped behind his back and made faces at the boy. “So what can I do for you, John?” 

John rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t really need anything. Just thought I might just pop in and see how things were going.” 

Lestrade straightened and shrugged, hands sliding into his pockets. “Same thing, honestly. Still chasing after lunatics.” 

A smile touched John’s mouth. “How’s Molly?” 

Lestrade’s face flushed across the bridge of his nose and up the back of his neck. “I... uh...” 

John’s eyes widened and he looked delighted. “No! You finally asked her?” 

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. Last week.” 

John clapped him on the shoulder and jogged him slightly. “Congrats, mate. How’s it going?” 

“Just a couple of dinners so far. She’s... ya know... She’s lovely.” 

John smiled with a full stretch of his mouth for the first time in a month. “I’m happy for you, mate.” 

“Yeah... Ta.” He shrugged. “Been a while though, hasn’t it. Sherlock... He’s been gone a while...”

John swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah. A while...” 

“I get off in a couple of hours. Catch a drink with me?” Lestrade asked. 

John nodded. “Yep.” 

“Pub on the corner?” 

John picked up Hamish and headed for the door. “Yep. See you then.” 

“Ta.” 


	4. Just One Yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just One Yesterday - Fall Out Boy
> 
> Merry belated Christmas~~
> 
> You guys get two chapters because I was stuck on chapter three for days so I worked on Chapter Four.

John started awake from a dead sleep when he thought he heard a noise from downstairs. He waited a beat in the heavy silence before he heard another thump and someone talking. He sat up and grabbed his gun out of the bedside table, glancing over at Hamish to make sure he was still alright.

He had a hand up to his mouth in a little pudgy ball as he breathed softly. His blanket was tangled around his legs and he had a deathgrip on his little stuffed dinosaur Mrs Hudson had given him. 

John was careful as he padded to the landing and listened. Mumbling and the bang of cabinets in the kitchen let him know where they were. He was careful to stay on the edge of the stairs so the squeaking of the floorboards wouldn’t give him away. He kept the pistol pointed at the floor and stalked his way down onto the landing outside of the sitting room. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye in the kitchen. It was just the swish of a dark shape, but he saw them move toward the sitting room. 

He heard something being shifted and a couple of clicks, but he couldn’t place the sound. With care, he quietly clicked the safety off and pressed his shoulder against the doorjam before swinging into the room and instantaneously locked onto the target in the corner. “Don’t move!” 

The figure stood still for only a moment before he turned around and looked at him with a cup of tea held in one hand and a book in the other. 

“John--”

“Sherlock--” 

“What are you doing here--”

“What the bloody fuck--” John said as he dropped the gun to his side. 

“I could ask the same but I won’t since you have obviously moved back in.” Sherlock sat his book and tea down. He studied John for a long moment. “I’m sorry about Mary.” He actually managed to sound saddened by the thought. 

John stared at him. “I’ve got to be bloody dreaming,” he muttered before turning around and heading back toward the stairs. 

“I can assure you, you’re not, John.”

He felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder and froze. 

“Not dreaming.” 

John rounded on him and poked him hard in the shoulder. Sherlock gave him a mildly startled look. “Twice, Sherlock. Twice you’ve played dead!” 

Sherlock stared at him, brows down over his eyes. “What on earth are you talking about, John? I wasn’t playing dead.” 

John tore away from him and paced away and back, shoving his pistol into the back of his trousers. “Nearly a month I’ve been back thinking you were dead!” He took a deep breath and sank to put his hands on his knees. “Christ, Sherlock. Twice...” His breath hitched and he had to fight the urge to punch Sherlock very very hard. 

“John, I don’t know where you got the interpretation that I was dead.” He actually seemed mildly concerned by the apparent panic attack John was about to descend into. 

“Mrs Hudson...” He sucked in a breath and started to hyperventilate. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly and he grabbed John’s shoulders and moved him to sit down in his leather chair. “I need you to breathe deeply for me John. You’re having a panic attack and will pass out if you don’t get enough air into your lungs.” 

John slapped uselessly at the hands still on his shoulders. “I’m... fine... Sherlock.” 

He very clearly was  _ not _ alright. Sherlock grabbed the sides of his face and made him meet his eyes. “You will be when you stop hyperventilating, John.” 

John met his eyes and pulled himself back from the edge as he slowly started to breathe more normally. 

When he finally came around, he pushed Sherlock back and the detective moved back to sit in the worn, red chair that had long ago been assigned to John. “Feel better?” 

“No. I still don’t know why you’ve been gone for months, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson made it sound as if you’d died. I’ve been mourning you for a second bloody time.” He got up and started to pace at a more sedate clip than he had before and his breathing remained relatively even. “Where the hell have you been?” 

Sherlock leaned back in the chair, all long limbs and carefully watching eyes. “I was staying elsewhere. I needed somewhere that Mycroft couldn’t find me.” 

“Why were you hiding from Mycroft?” Despite everything, he was still concerned about Sherlock, and Mycroft had always been on his radar of people to watch. 

Sherlock waved a hand. “He wanted me to take on something to do with MI6, but I have no desire to get wrapped up in it. We disagreed strongly on it so I needed space to think. I couldn’t do so with him breathing down my neck.” 

“What was the case?” John asked, sitting back down.

Sherlock shrugged. “Something to do with a mess that one of his agents had caused. His agent got one of the buildings blown up.” 

John nodded. “I read about a gas leak explosion a few months ago.” 

“That would be the one. What happened with Mary?” he asked. 

John blinked at him. “Figured you would know already.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Forgive me for not knowing every little thing about you, John. I’ve only been back in the country for two hours.” 

John snorted but sobered quickly. “She was taking contracts. I found out. We left her and came back here. That’s when I found out you were gone.” 

Sherlock steepled his fingers against his mouth as was his habit when considering. “‘We’?” 

John nodded toward the playpen in the corner. “Hamish and I.” 

Sherlock blinked as if he hadn’t expected that. “I didn’t think you would bring him with you.” 

“As if I was going to leave him with my soon-to-be-ex,” John scoffed. 

“Given the circumstances, I can’t blame you. Will you be staying now that I’m back?” he seemed unsure of the answer as he waited with intensity in his eyes. 

John shrugged. “‘Less you want me to leave since I have Hamish with me.” 

Sherlock shook his head and his curls bounced along his forehead. “No. Having him here will not hinder me. Though, I will warn you that I am unfit to look after small children as I do not quite remember being one.” 

John just stared at him for a long moment before a laugh burst from his mouth and he shook his head. “You haven’t changed at all.” 

They both jumped slightly when Hamish let out a loud cry from above them in John’s room. 

He stood and started to move before he’d even thought about it. He paused at the door and looked back at Sherlock. “We’ll talk more in the morning. I want to hear more about that case of Mycroft’s. I’m sure he’ll be by here tomorrow.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let his limbs ooze over the chair as he went limp. “Fiiiiiine.” 

John snorted and kept walking as he went to go comfort his son. 


End file.
